A Photograph and an (Un)Spoken Plea
by Lawson227
Summary: Post S2-finale observations of Donald Ressler and Elizabeth Keen as seen through the eyes of those closest to them. Originally, this was going to be a quick little flash piece. It's...not. (Darn FF-net's restriction on only 4 characters. Red definitely plays a role in CH 2—whenever I get to it.)


**A PHOTOGRAPH AND AN (UN)SPOKEN PLEA**

 **Disclaimer: I own nothing. Not a bit. Eisendrath & Bokenkamp have it all and they're sneaky, horrible people who enjoy toying with our emotions.**

 **AN:** This started out as a quick little flash fic to provide some insight into Ressler & Liz via the people around them. Not quite so flash any longer. And the insight on Liz will occur in a second chapter. Umm..sorry?

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The heavy tread echoing through the bullpen with slow, deliberate purpose had Samar glancing from her computer screen to the somber white face of the wall-mounted clock, even though it was a wasted gesture. She already knew it was precisely 7:15AM—on the dot, even—but she looked anyway, the same way she looked every morning. She didn't even know why anymore. Maybe it was habit. Or maybe it was just wishful thinking. Hoping for some deviation—any deviation—in the daily routine because that might mean that something— _anything_ —had changed.

It hadn't.

Nothing had changed. Not today. Not in the last twenty-four hours since this same ritual had been performed. And sure as hell, not in the last six months since the moment when everything changed.

"You'd think that picture would be worn through, as intensely as he stares at it."

Without looking, she reached a hand back to accept the venti mocha she knew, with the same surety that she knew it was now 7:16—on the dot, even—would be there. "You need to be careful what you say and how loudly you say it," she murmured before taking a long, restorative sip of coffee. It wasn't the intense Turkish jet fuel that had gotten her through so many long nights while on assignment for Mossad, but it was more than adequate. Tastier, too.

"Do you really think he pays any attention to us?"

"He pays attention to everything—it's his job."

"Not during the ten minutes he spends studying that board every morning." Regardless, Aram moved around to the side of her desk, allowing him to both lean in more closely while still keeping a vigilant eye on the board before which Ressler stood, immobile. The man might have been a statue for all he moved, but Samar knew it was during those ten minutes every day that his brain was moving at its fastest, processing those rare bits of information that might have come in during the five hours he allowed himself to not inhabit this place. Or more commonly, like on mornings like today's, when nothing new had come in, simply reviewing. Making certain there wasn't anything they'd missed, any angle they hadn't covered—wondering what would Red do even though there was no damned way on earth to predict what Raymond Reddington would do even under the best of circumstances—i.e. when he was working on their side.

When he was actively opposing them?

It was like a replay of all those fruitless years—Ressler chasing Reddington around the globe, getting tantalizingly close, but never quite able to catch up, the eternal mouse being toyed with by Red's gleefully sadistic cat.

Samar wasn't even certain why Ressler bothered except for the one aspect of his personality in which he exceeded Reddington—his sheer stubbornness.

Well, that and…

She sighed as she took in his continued absorption in the picture posted on the board.

One of the abilities she'd honed to razor sharpness during her years in Mossad was that of reading people. After months of observing Ressler, Samar was well aware that even more than attempting to delve into the intricately woven tapestry that was Reddington's psyche, Ressler spent those quiet moments every morning standing before Liz's picture and asking the questions he couldn't allow himself to dwell on at any other time during the day. Asking why did Liz do this to them? Why did she leave?

Why didn't she trust them?

Why didn't she trust _him_?

Not that he'd ever once articulated the last, even obliquely, but then, he hadn't had to. At least, not to Samar. To her, it was abundantly clear that Ressler was devastated by his former partner's betrayal. Not so much of her country or even of her team, but of _him_.

"You know, I'm not certain what bothers him most."

She turned her attention away from Ressler and to Aram. "What's that?"

"The fact that she trusted Reddington or that she didn't trust _him_."

She took a thoughtful sip of her coffee. "She trusted him enough to call him before disappearing."

"Yeah, but she didn't trust him enough to come in. And in the end, she trusted Red more than she trusted her own partner. Her best friend, if I had to wager a guess." Aram lifted a shoulder. "If there's _anything_ that's liable to frost Ressler's cookies, it's that. And I'm not sure there's any coming back from that."

Only faintly shocked at Aram's insight, Samar glanced back toward the board just in time to catch the subtle rise and fall of Ressler's shoulders as he took a deep breath. Their brief respite was coming to an end.

"Oh, I think you'd be shocked at the soul's capacity for forgiveness."

She turned back in time to easily read the obvious shock widening Aram's eyes.

"Surprised?"

Crimson streaked his cheekbones above his beard, but he held her gaze. "Pleasantly so."

Not for the first time did the thought cross Samar's mind that Aram could prove quite the enjoyable distraction during her D.C. assignment—but as quickly as the thought occurred, it was dismissed. A visceral gut reaction which still caught her by surprise. She'd certainly not shied away from distractions in the past. After all, assignments could be long and it was a well-proven manner with which to relieve stress but something held her back from treating Aram as such. He was better than a distraction.

She smiled and lifted her cup in toast. "I am a woman of many layers, Agent Mojtabai."

"I kinda enjoy peeling them back." Another blush, fiercer than the first, deepened his complexion to near-scarlet but his gaze held hers without hesitation, prompting a wave of unaccustomed heat. Thank goodness she didn't blush. Much.

After a beat, Aram cleared his throat and said, "You really think Ressler can forgive her?"

Samar watched as Ressler turned from the board and strode back through the bullpen, the deliberate tread of his steps on the concrete floor more rapid and purposeful than it had been ten minutes earlier.. And angrier. So very angry.

"He can forgive her. Will he…?" She and Aram exchanged apprehensive glances and he sighed, his concern readily evident.

"Will he?"

She permitted herself a brief touch to the back of his hand, as much for reassurance as to prompt the brief resurgence of the blush she found unaccountably charming. "Your guess is as good as mine."

"The sooner we get her back, the better."

"Then we'd best get back to work."


End file.
